From a Weed to a Rose
by BlueStarlightWarmDusk
Summary: A dark FrUK that later becames a warm, fluffy UKFrance. After enduring rough times, Arthur must help his gnarled, thorn-filled heart rebirth as a rose for a certain Frenchman. The thorns are painful, but nobody said it would be easy to rid of or keep away
1. An Exhausting Weed

**Woof. But I am a female, and I must say that as such, I am more feline than canine as a boy would be. But just as you are unique beings, I am also such, dear readers.  
>Now I must say that, with all due respect, I will not make promises on updating. I haven't finished any other stories before besides Gust, and I am very focused on my education and my grades, for I expect the best out of myself at all times. High School, although where I live it does not prepare one for college as they say, is a very important part of my life, therefore it must be conquered *coughlikeFrancis'svitalregionscough*. This is the first multichapter that is considered genuine by my golden rule, so I am new to this. Please respect that.<br>Constructive criticism is very much appreciated, as it will help me better construct for you. Flames will be used for the fuel I have for burning down those damned bowling pins, which I do when I'm upset. Now, if you will, excuse my ranting and enjoy... or dislike and do not return, if you wish to do so, for you are entitled to your opinion and I respect that. There will be sexual content in later chapters; nothing explicit, for I am not a big fan of wild, crazy monkey sex *vomits*. And it most definitely won't be hate-sex or overly sappy, for both are sickening. I believe that Francis and Arthur deserve to be treated much better, as guests in my imagination, which I always expect outstanding results from.  
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The Frenchman knew the difference between moody and genuinely troubled. How could he not? He'd only had _years_ to decipher the two very similar emotions when they radiated from Arthur.

Moody from Arthur was like today's weather. Moody were the dark, pregnant-with-countless-kiloliters-of-rain, low clouds that hung over the botanical gardens of the city. Moody was nature when it grumbled at the humans below it, "Get into your houses before I drench you and unleash my silvery ribbons of anger upon you, blast it all." Moody was how the wind blew, rude and impatient under people's clothing, sending chills down arms and up spines.

Troubled from Arthur was the way the flowers trembled, unable to escape the oncoming storm. Just in the way the Briton's voice cracked from the effort of yelling, and by the way he tried to avert his evergreen gaze, Francis knew that something was _troubling_ his beloved Artuer.

"No, Frog! I will not go out with you, ever!"

The words split the silence of the cool, autumnal air like lightning. They were fueled by an angry internal heat that had burned Arthur's soul for many years on end. He clenched his eyes shut, and his fingers curled against his damp palms till they formed fists. He was so tired of all of the jokes, so done with letting himself become vulnerable only to be torn later.

And Francis could see this very clearly. After many years of tinkering with the Briton's buttons to see how he worked, Arthur had become very readable to the Frenchman. Blue eyes watched for the things they usually saw with Arthur's anger: the toxic, almost nuclear glint in his cold, green eyes. The clenched teeth and their nearly inaudible grinding. The flaring of his nostrils when he began to breathe faster and harder. But with all of this, Francis also saw a well-hidden sadness. _Almost_ well-hidden.

He could see the way Arthur was trying to hold his intensity, but how it was beginning to fail on him. His body began to tremble, especially around his knees.

_Trois._

His lips began to fall from a tightly-held snarl into a frown.

_Deux._

The way he gave a frustrated groan as he reopened his clover eyes, and the way they had moistened and reddened.

_Un._

"Damn it all, frog! Are you just going to sit and stare? Bugger off!" he yelled, this time flailing his arms as if it would scare off the Frenchman.

Of course, Francis was more persistent with these kinds of matters; the ones that were better left alone till things began to simmer down. But what should Arthur expect from someone who liked to take advantage of others? Someone who would attack the minute his opponent crumbled under the pressure, making them succumb to his power, defenseless? The sneaky, apathetic bastard!

He let out a sound of disapproval when Francis coiled his arms around his waists, trying to wriggle free of the grip. "Unhand me this instant!"

"_Mon petit chou, qu'est-ce qu'il y a?"_

It was something about that damned frog-speak that pissed him off more. The smooth way it flowed, the way it secretly soothed him. The way it made him _hate _Francis even more. But there was a fine line between hate and love, and Arthur knew that he wasn't on the side he had convinced himself he was on.

He loved Francis, was _in love_ with the Frenchman. And the anger he felt was nothing but frustration for refusing to believe so.

Finally, he gave up and stilled himself in the Frenchman's grip, not quite relaxing to be cautious. Francis was well-known for trying things.

"…Shouldn't you be off, hopping around in the rosebushes at the other side of this place, Frog? I'm sure that's what you paid to see," Arthur said, taking deep breaths as an attempt to re-disguise his already-discovered anger.

Francis let out a soft o_hohohon. _"There is… a specific _rose _that I needed to stop and smell before I continued walking through life without a care, _mon cher_."

Arthur's cheeks turned a tired shade of dawn at his sweet words. At this point, he didn't care to hide it, wanting to release his bottled-up emotions so as to relieve his stress. Just like the sky, how it grumbled again, _I'm tired of holding it in, _before letting large, frigid droplets fall to the Earth. It was going to be a terrible storm.

"Why do you care about me, Frog? Even when I do not openly return the same feelings to you?"

Arthur crossed his arms and walked out of Francis's hold, then turned to face him. He became uneasy when he saw that the blue-eyed man was smiling, his back nearly against the swan-gorgeous honeysuckle that shook in the chilly gusts.

More of his signature mischievous laughter. "You say _openly_ as if you wish to do so, mon lapin."

Arthur silently cursed himself, not only realizing that he'd let himself slip, but also that he had forgotten his jacket. But he sighed, wanting this internal coldness to be replaced by warmth. Hesitantly he spoke. "I do, stupid, slimy frog. As twisted as it is."

_Careful, Arthur. You are treading on dangerous, unpredictable turf now. _Thoughts of running from it all always invaded his mind at time like these, when he felt open. He felt he was just asking to be picked and pulled apart again, a defenseless carcass under a vulture's gaze. He shook the metaphor away, however. Francis was not a vulture, and he knew that he, Arthur, was definitely not defenseless by any means. No. He could tear one to shreds and push them away instantly, being the proud, strong, cold person he was.

It was all fear speaking to him. And he refused to be controlled by it. Its deadly claws would turn him into a tragedy if he submitted to it, able to make a cowardly mess of him. He shivered, the combination of the thought, the rain, and the wind making him cold. Goosebumps had erupted on his arms and his teeth wanted to chatter.

The Briton felt Francis's arm slither its way around his shoulders. With the grip came a tug, pulling him along the stony path.

"Let us find shelter and speak more of this, Artuer… or remain silent, if you so desire."

They continued on the trail quietly, not stopping to observe the Kangaroo Paws or Daffodils or Hydrangeas that grew along the path's edges. In a few minutes, they crossed a small, rickety bridge and found themselves in an ivy-covered gazebo. The gazebo was surrounded by water, lily pads and cattails interrupting the smooth flow of the current. Silence didn't exist, even if Francis and Arthur did not speak. The rain had begun to pour, bullets of… was that hail? skipping below, then back up to the water's surface.

"We will be stuck here for quite a while," Arthur's voice came. A hefty sigh escaped his lungs. He was weary, as he always had been for the past three years.

"Not that I mind. Slimy frogs such as myself enjoy this soaking weather. It keeps us smooth," Francis said, a giggle following his words. He was trying to make the best of the situation, as both of them had become drenched even after such a short walk through the rain.

He could see that Arthur's grain-colored locks were plastered to his face, and Francis knew that he probably appeared no better. With a shaky hand, he reached down in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a black ponytail to tie his hair back, smiling when he heard the Briton's soft chuckle from the other side of the gazebo. And then, as soon as it began, it ended. Arthur was frowning again, frustration etching its way back into his features.

"If you don't mind me asking again, _mon lapin, qu'est-ce qu'il y a_? I only wish to help you feel better, Artuer," Francis tried again, moving closer to the clover-eyed man, cautiously.

Arthur inhaled deep, and then exhaled slowly, resting his elbow on the edge of the gazebo's wooden railing, brushing off some chipping paint. He rested his chin in his palm. "I am exhausted, Francis. I need a vacation from myself and my stressors." He let his other arm dangle over the railing, toying with a cattail that stuck out, mighty and strong above the rest. _So unlike himself_, he thought, no matter how much it seemed contrary with the way he acted. But it was just that; all an act, a mask to cover up his troubles. He didn't like his troubles, but who did?

"…From… yourself?" Francis repeated. He knew that he was blinded by his love for the shorter man when his thoughts strayed to _'But there are so many things to enjoy about yourself! I can list so many wonderful things about you, mon cher!'_

"Yes. I'm over-working myself, trying to reach my unrealistic goals, trying to bottle up all feeling in the process. It doesn't work, when you aren't true to yourself. I don't like business work. Stacks of paper every day are not fun, and for things I don't want to be involved in. But that's irrelevant," Arthur looked Francis dead in the eyes, solemn and no-nonsense, "Was earlier a joke, _Pepe le Pew_? Because if, gods forbid, I am that woebegone cat in your eyes, I want you to leave immediately."

"Vous mean Penelope, mon ange? Non, Artuer; this is not a game to me at all, or a cartoon intended for my entertainment. I am serious," Francis said, smiling as he leaned against the railing with the Briton. He thumbed the shorter's cheek, brushing rain-plastered locks from his green eyes, "I know that it is very hard to believe, but… I am not… all that people believe me to be. I mean, _a rapist_, Arthur. I am manipulative and definitely amorous, but… I have not forced myself upon anybody in that way. If anything, I am the type who wants to touch and be touched."

Arthur rolled his eyes at the last sentence. "Obviously."

"Well, _desole_, when I make you feel uncomfortable. But I really mean it, Artuer," He pulled a pink rose from his pocket, still keeping his hand rubbing Arthur's face. It was made of transparent glass with dulled thorns of dark green, "I want to date _vous_, mon cher."

"Aren't you a fan of red roses, fool?" Arthur questioned.

"There is no need to rush, mon cher. Red is not appropriate so early in a relationship, oui?"

There was no longer hail, only hard rain and thunder with an occasional glow of lightning in the clouds. The wind had calmed down as well, but the temperature had dropped a good amount to make up for it. Arthur closed his eyes, thoughtful, leaning into Francis's touch for warmth.

He loved Francis, from his locks of sunlight to his always working feet, and almost everywhere in between. _Almost_. And there, in that stall, came his decision.

"I still have myself to work out, Francis," he answered sincerely, sadness crossing his mind at thoughts of how to _gently_ reject the Frenchman he so longed for. "One cannot love another if they do not love themselves first. My heart has become… a very thorny weed over time. I've neglected it by not listening to it. I have seen it as illogical, as it has only gotten me into trouble lately… and very much in the past. So… I am truly, truly sorry… I want to, but… my self-values need to be satisfied first, I don't…"

Arthur swiped at his eyes, now stinging with tears, pulling his face from the warm touch. He hated this, but he knew it was better for them both. He looked back at Francis, trying his absolute best to keep his composure.

"I do not want, at all, to give you a weed in return for that gorgeous rose you have there, and the rose you are by heart," Arthur said. He averted his gaze, knowing that he was going to release more salty droplets from the corners of his eyes. It hurt to say those words, but he also knew that they were very true-to-his-soul words.

Francis looked genuinely hurt, but he also understood. He pulled the Briton into a tight hug, knowing it wouldn't be the end.

"It is alright, mon ange," he soothed, wiping away Arthur's tears, "You have to do what _you_ feel is right, through it all. But…"

He gave Arthur some space to breathe, a smirk tugging at his lips when Arthur ended up with hiccups. The Briton sneezed, looking up at the sky and how it still looked as though the rain would not stop for a few more hours. A bright flash of lightning, followed by a moderate rumble of thunder reassured that thought.

"I should be getting somewhere warm and enclosed or I am going to catch a terrible cold," Arthur murmured. With all of the piled-on stress, he knew that he was very prone to becoming ill, and at a swift rate.

"Do you have a place to stay, Artuer?" Francis asked.

"I'm sure I can find one, Francis," Arthur replied, pulling a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiping his face with it. It didn't work very well, considering that the rain had drenched him pretty thoroughly during their walk to this place.

"Non. I offer you my hospitality, Artuer. It's the least I can do. I have a very cozy couch that you can sleep on, and a balcony that you can read on, and I can cook very well," Francis said, "I want to help you, mon ange… with everything. _Sil vous plait?"_

Arthur considered this carefully. Wouldn't he want to just be alone for now? All thought said yes, but… He didn't want to be walking around in this dreadful weather, going hotel to hotel and then having to calculate which would be cheapest or which would give him more for his money. And he didn't know how to get around this place very well, so finding a hotel would be a challenge in and of itself. He also did not want to _not_ have the best for himself considering that he already felt sick.

"Very well, then. I will stay at your dwellings," Arthur said, taking Francis's outstretched hand in his.

Francis smiled at this and nodded. "_Merci_, Artuer."

With that, the Frenchman dragged Arthur through the garden quickly as he could, the multicolored flowers, trimmed bushes and short trees that accented the path passing them by in a near blur. They came to its exit, their breathing short and rushed, a disagreement with the sudden exercise. Ahead of the black gates, there was a souvenir shop, and when the two men walked in, the clerk seemed to know that they weren't there for any trinkets.

"You are looking for the umbrellas, yes?" she said, friendly green eyes flickering to them. She stood up from her place behind the checkout desk, frilly coral dress succumbing to gravity and falling about her knees.

"Oui, Elizaveta," Francis replied with a nod.

Her shoulder-length brown hair bounced with her footsteps as she waved them over to follow her, and the two men obeyed.

"It got wild out there pretty quickly, didn't it?" she asked.

They were now at the back corner of the shop, a woven basket of multicolored umbrellas before them. The woman picked up a royal blue one, smiling at the color, pink tinting her cheeks. She hands it to Francis, who looked back at her with understanding sapphire eyes, and then looked down to stare at Arthur, who was shivering violently in the chill of the air conditioner, but he still managed a small smile.

"You look like a sick puppy, Arthur," she said, giggling when shock widened the Briton's emerald eyes and slackened his jaw.

"Just wait here for a minute. And the umbrella is on me," she continued, walking away to her desk. She bent over to reach into one of the oak wood drawers, and pulled out a small, white towel adorned with sewn cornflowers that danced about its perimeter. She then walked back to Arthur and handed him the towel, which the green eyed man took gratefully.

"I have heard much about you, Mister Kirkland," she told him as he wiped his face and wrung out his hair into the cloth.

She winked at Francis when she knew Arthur couldn't see, earning a smirk and a faint blush from the Frenchman. Considering what had happened, though, Francis changed the subject, silently promising that he would tell the Hungarian woman later so as not to be rude.

"How is Roderich?" he asked, and saw Arthur shoot him a thankful look.

Elizaveta looked down shyly, much love in her eyes. "He's going to be a father in six months. He is very happy and proud, albeit nervous."

"_Felicitations_!" Francis exclaimed, nearly jumping up and down at the news. He always loved to see happy couples.

"Thank you," she said, clasping her hands together and letting them fall to her abdomen.

The soft pitter patter of rain against the windows filled the air, chuckles emanating from the Hungarian and the Frenchman when Arthur groaned. Somehow, the Briton had tangled his hair with a loose thread from the cloth. He'd given up trying to tug himself free, and now the cloth dangled from his bangs and in front of his face.

"You two should be on your way home, dears. We're in for another, worse round or thunderstorms tonight," Elizaveta said softly, pulling apart the tight knot that had formed between Arthur and her towel with careful, agile fingers.

She apologized quickly when Arthur let out a pained noise as the thread came free. She then led the two men to the door, which bid them farewell with a merry jingle from its bell. She waved as they left, the indigo umbrella over their heads, shielding them from the now-calming rain, the eye of the storm.

"You two be careful, then. Thank you for visiting the gardens and come back anytime you wish," she called out behind them before disappearing behind the stained-glass door.

They walked one final stony path until it met the sidewalk by the street. The city was still hustling and bustling as it always did, paying little caution to the slippery weather. Ambulance sirens sounded off somewhere in the distance, its echoes nearly muffled by the thick network of tall buildings that scraped the raging sky before the Briton and the Frenchman. They reached an intersection, Arthur eagerly smashing his fist into the button with a clang, letting out a grumble when a stubborn red hand kept lighting up the sign at the opposite side of the crosswalk.

"It is only doing its job to keep you safe, mon cher," Francis said, a smirk lighting up his features.

Arthur scowled at him. "When it is bloody cold and my shirt has soaked through, I expect that glowing white twit of a stick figure to pop up on the other side of the street immediately."

Francis laughed at Arthur's remark, pushing him ahead when said stick figure lit up the screen. They continued the remainder of their walk in silence, with the exception of the rumbling sky and its downpour that bulleted the streets.

Finally, they came to Francis's apartment complex, which was an elegant eight-story building, so bright and happy and red against the surrounding neutral-colored buildings. He opened the door to the lobby, breaking down the umbrella and shaking it off before he walked into the lobby. He caught Arthur just as the green eyed man lost his balance on the polished white tile. God forbid the stairs were made of the same material, as the place was dimly lighted and Arthur could barely see, having expected chandeliers and bright lights to make up for the darkness outside. It just seemed so…_ Francis_ to be fancy.

But this building was simple in its beauty. Fake plants sat in corners of the lobby, very green and calm against the darkness of the brown walls. Black sofas sat against the walls, worn from their being used multiple times. The miserable furniture pieces; it must suck to be sat on your whole life by strangers.

"It's like they want to bloody scare everyone off. Where is the golden, sunlight furniture and where are the thoughtful green walls and the real plants?" Arthur asked. He hated cheap, distasteful places.

"It will get better, mon cher. My room takes on a much more welcoming atmosphere, of course," Francis said, guiding Arthur to the elevator. Another grateful glance from the Briton's tired eyes, and a relieved sigh when their shoes met carpet. _Friction_.

Francis pressed the glowing button that would take them to the fourth floor and ultimately to his room. He looked down at Arthur, who had sunk to the floor, his eyes closed and his breathing soft. A cough broke from the shorter man's lungs, and he groaned at the sudden burning in his throat.

"I don't like _plagues_, whether it be the people of my home country or the cells of my insides. It makes me feel weaker than I already am," Arthur murmured, bringing his knees to his chest and resting his chin upon them.

Francis helped Arthur up as the fourth chime of the bell sounded, patting the Briton's damp wheat locks.

'_You _are_ strong, mon cher. You just need to be nurtured, from this weed you call yourself into a rose."_


	2. The Thorns are in Bloom

**I apologize much for the wait. As I have warned you before, though, I am very critical of myself. If you are returning and have not gone back to read the last chapter, ****it has been fully rewritten****. You will be confused this chapter if you do not, so I suggest you do so.  
>Be warned that this chapter has suggestive content and is not for the faint of heart. I re-wrote this thing three times, so I hope that it is worth your time, as I am content with it and it is rare for me to feel so. This is my first time ever getting to the next chapter of a multi-chapter fiction, so I feel proud, to say the most, as I refuse to let myself become too content *nervous*<br>I would really like your feedback: anything works, really, even something simple like, "You deserve a cookie" but I especially would like feedback concerning my habitual repetition. There is always something to improve on; I am not satisfied until I find out what they are and work my hardest on them. I have been working very hard to improve setting, so I hope the improvement is noticeable…**

Francis had a scent. Whenever Arthur was around the sunlight-haired, taller man, he gave off surprisingly masculine scents: mint and another forest-y scent that Arthur couldn't identify. Lastly, there was _that_ smell: the one that summed up the definition of Francis, the scent that gave an essence full of mischievousness, laughter and said, "Let's have a wonderful time, mon ami!" Of course, Arthur would keep this to himself. _For now_.

Wait… when had Arthur fallen asleep? And why was it so cold and hot at the same time? And what was gently tracing…

'_Oh gods.'_

Arthur shot up from his place on the couch, only to be pushed back down gently. He shook his head and rose up again, and the opposing force lessened before finally falling away. When he opened his eyes, a mixture of yellow blurriness, spots of rainbow light, and Francis's unrecognizable figure invaded his vision. Nausea worked its way into his stomach, swirling around in its emptiness.

'_I should have eaten…'_

"Bloody _hell_," Arthur muttered, reaching for any blanket, anything warm that would relieve his chills. He found nothing and grasped at his head when a high-pitched ringing filled his ears. "I have never heard of anybody getting sick so fast. This is absurd."

Francis chuckled slightly. "I thought it was Croissant, at first. But when I picked you up after you collapsed, you were burning up and losing consciousness and-"

One of Arthur's shaky hands fell from his head and covered the Frenchman's mouth, his head throbbing worse with each word that left the blue-eyed man's mouth. He loved that voice very much, but right now, every sound he heard was amplified and mixed with the irritating ringing.

"What a' yous talkink about, Frog?" Arthur slurred, his voice quiet and scratchy. "Why would I collap' sover a Croissant?"

Francis gestured toward something below Arthur's current field of vision. When Arthur looked down, he saw a blurry, orange ball on his stomach. He pulled his hand from Francis's mouth and brought it to the thing, and when his hand landed on it, he felt long, smooth fur. He tried to focus, squinting his eyes to try to tune out the still-swirling scintillas of rainbow light and blackening yellow.

He let out a frustrated growl. "Ca't see anythi'g…"

"Perhaps… it is better if you lie back down, mon cher," Francis said, pushing his hand against the Briton's chest till the smaller man plopped back against the couch's cushion.

Arthur detected a shakiness in the Frenchman's voice, more confusion filling his mind when he heard a sniffle.

"The hell, Frog? A' you crying?" Arthur asked, wanting to rise up again but unable to. His limbs felt heavy as lead.

A finger traced against something on Arthur's bare torso, earning a pained whine from the clover eyed man. The pain felt sharp and added an intense burn to his already aching abdomen. The weight from the fuzzy orange ball on his stomach didn't help, either.

"Wha' the hell a' you doing?" Arthur whined, squirming to try to escape the feeling. A little relief came when the orange ball of fluff hopped off of him, but he still wanted the burning to stop.

"What happened to you, Artuer?" Francis asked, pulling his hand away from the long, fresh wound. His blue gaze continued to other markings on the Briton's body.

Some were burns, ranging in their degrees. Others were minor cuts. And then there were scars left from what looked to be knives. _Mon Dieu_, if this was the front side, Francis could only imagine what lied on the rest of him.

His love-struck mind spoke. _'If he lets you, you'll get your chance to 'examine' the rest of him.'_

The Frenchman pushed the thought away, turning around on the couch so that he could reach the lamp in the corner of his small apartment. It was already lightning up the place, albeit dimly. Tiny, faint rainbows danced on the ceiling, adding life to what life was already given by the pale yellow walls that lined the living room.

He pulled on the crystal frog dangling from the lamp, and the lamp gave more light in turn. The light bounced off the prisms that surrounded the light bulb, and the rainbows on the ceiling brightened. Arthur groaned, his messed-up vision finally coming to him. The splotches of black left, and within another minute, his vision was clear.

Clover eyes scanned his surroundings, and when he looked down at himself, he saw that he was wearing a different set of clothes.

"Cou'd you at least warn me before you remove my ga'ments?" Arthur asked darkly, turning his gaze away from Francis, who indeed looked as though he had been sobbing.

The Briton knew that his little secrets had been exposed, even with his headache interrupting most of his thought flow. All of the markings he had received from the last three years now showed, clear in the light emanating from the lamp.

'_And the person who cares about me the most is looking at them with sadness. Such a shame; the only results I've had with these things is sadness._' Arthur thought.

He looked back to Francis, who had also averted his gaze.

"Do you even _want_ to know, Francis? Because I do not think that you are ready to hear _anything_ if you broke down just from seeing me this way," Arthur said, his voice a bit louder now, but very gravelly.

The clover eyed man struggled, but managed to sit up, wanting to comfort his long-time friend across from him on the couch now that he had the chance to. He willed his legs to work for him and got into a crawling position, moving closer to Francis, painfully and sluggishly, his nausea worsening with each move he made. But the remainder of his shattered pride helped his willpower, and in a few moments, the weary Briton had his arms coiled around the blue eyed man.

When he looked over Francis's shoulder, the object that once looked to be nothing more than a giant, living, orange koosh ball could now be made out near the Frenchman's feet. A curious set of beady eyes stared up at him, a pink nose moving as it sniffed, filling itself with the new scent of the Briton above it. _Predator or friend?_

'_Ah_' Arthur thought, reading the golden tag hanging from the blue collar around the bunny's neck, which read "Croissant". He now understood why Francis would have thought that he'd fainted at the sight of the beautiful animal, and Arthur probably would have collapsed. He had never seen a long-haired, floppy-eared, pumpkin-furred bunny in his life. It was truly remarkable.

"When?" Arthur asked simply, lacing one of his hands in Francis's sunlight locks, closing his eyes and enjoying the Frenchman's familiar scent. If he could pull of changing the subject now, it would buy him more time to recollect everything that he'd tell his beloved friend later.

Francis sighed, a smirk lightning up his face. "I got him… when I first heard Alfred tell me about your Flying Mint Bunny."

"Oh? The heart-attack-on-a-bun-addicted brute decided to tell you?" Arthur snorted. "Typical American media, always telling the world about people's personal lives. What a dirty, sneaky twit."

Francis chuckled. "I just thought that maybe I should find myself a happy place, too. Building lasting relationships was challenging back then, with wars and battles breaking out all over the place… and even when I was just screwing around with various men and women to see what I could find."

He reached down and picked up Croissant, setting the large bunny on his lap. He reached back and pulled Arthur's free hand over his shoulder to set the Briton's hand atop the bunny's head.

Arthur smiled. "It's like I always imagined it to be; so soft and warm."

They sat in total silence like that for many more moments. Outside, the rain had stopped slamming against the glass sliding doors at the back of the apartment. When Arthur turned his face toward the balcony just outside those doors, he could see that it was still cloudy. Off in the distance, beyond the hustle and bustle of the city, he spotted seriously furious black clouds. He gulped at the sight of the wild, sharp, silver ribbons of electricity that flashed beneath them. Bloody Hell was about to fall upon this place!

"Frog… will we be alright tonight?" Arthur asked, wide, curious, evergreen gaze fixated on the sheer anger of the sky. He was alright with thunderstorms, having lived with them in harmony in his homeland. In fact, he very much appreciated the company of the thunder, the rain, and the lightning in his quiet ex-home. But _this_?

_This _storm was something else entirely. He'd only seen it on television, how these fronts would invade America, sometimes tearing his friend's land apart, bringing the proud boy's citizens to their ends. And every time, Alfred would cry almost hysterically, till he looked as though he would pass out.

"_I lost so many of my people during September Eleventh, Artie. I just keep losing my people. Every day my people die, and then_ _Mother Nature has the nerve to take them away in large masses to rub it in. I wonder what they were like, Artie. I wonder who they were and regret every day that goes by too fast for me to meet them all before they go..."_

Arthur shivered at the memory of his friend's tears. This didn't go unnoticed by Francis, who turned his ocean gaze to the glass doors. He closed his eyes and sighed. _So much for not believing everything you saw on television_. This storm, the kind of storm he thought was exaggerated in its power by the way the narrators of weather disaster stories described them, looked as though it meant serious business.

"I do not know, Artuer, what will happen to us," Francis said, trying to keep his composure so as not to scare the Briton.

Arthur groaned, "But obviously it's not something good."

"Oui, mon cher."

The Frenchman's attention turned to Arthur's stomach when it let out a low growl. Arthur blushed, knowing how Francis probably observed that he didn't exactly look like the kind of person who ate at buffets every day. In fact, Arthur hadn't eaten at all today.

_He had not eaten on many occasions._

"What would you like to eat, Artuer?" Francis asked, an amused smile on his face.

"I'm fine with just scones and tea, Frog," Arthur squeaked. He didn't like it when his body made odd noises; it made him feel like his dignity was going to disappear.

Francis almost cried at the request. He remembered the taste _that_ had left in his mouth.

"Why not lamb chops with a salad, mon cher?" Francis suggested. He felt ebullience and excitement make him bubbly on the inside. "You can dine with the lions tonight, hohohon!"

"Just cook me something, you twit!" Arthur yelled, his face turning redder when his stomach growled again, louder than last time. He shoved the laughing Frenchman away.

"Would you like wine with that?"

And that's when Arthur froze.

'_It would be so wonderful, wouldn't it, twat?'_

'_Please don't do it, Arthur. It hurts.'_

'_You could relieve your frustrations if you just let loose.'_

'I am much more dignified than that. Screw you.'

'_Just as you have been for the last three years, addict.'_

"Make it stop, make it stop, please, make it stop!" Arthur murmured, covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut. He felt all the more sick at the thought of the beverage, knowing what it had done to him.

Three years was enough.

Francis's hand met the Briton's forehead. Maybe he was becoming delusional? Illness could do that to people. He could feel beads of sweat dampen his hand, and was stunned when his eyes met teary, fearful, emerald ones.

Arthur's voice was shaky. "Please, Francis. No wine. No alcohol. Never again."

_Was he hearing things?_

"D'accord…" Francis replied, the humor in his blue eyes gone. He walked over to the kitchen, unsure of what to do with the Briton. He was truly concerned, as he had been the instant he'd seen what lied under Arthur's clothing.

What had happened to Arthur? What had happened for Arthur to become scared of his beloved alcoholic beverages? Why wasn't the Briton telling him anything?

He heard storm sirens sound off in the distance, which only increased his fear. On the kitchen's tile floor, Croissant stared up at him, fluffy orange tail raised, knowing the threat. Arthur sobbed softly in his place in the living room.

Tonight was going to be a rough night…

***~BlueStarlightWarmDusk: From a Weed to a Rose: The Thorns are in Bloom~***

Arthur panted in his sleep, his throat protesting every breath and sending stinging sensations up and down in the Briton's chest.

_A choking, breathless feeling._

Sweat dripped down his face, landing in the pool of drool that had formed at the base of his pillow, dampening his bare chest.

'_Drowning in it. I'm drowning in it!'_

He moaned suddenly, a warm, pleasing tingle surging through him. He laughed slightly, snuggling himself into the blankets, feeling comfortable surrounded by the Frenchman's scent, what his imagination processed as a tight hug.

_But gods, it feels so bloody good in the end._

He reveled in every fake touch, every fake kiss he was receiving.

Until his face landed in his drool puddle.

He choked, sputtered, and then tumbled off of the couch, hitting the fluffy blue carpet head-first. The remainder of his sleep left him in a spinning rush, dizzying him and causing bile to rise up in his throat. He yelped, trying desperately to swallow it back, only to regret it when he began retching, and then it spilled out of him, leaving him breathless.

Tears leaked from his eyes. He couldn't breathe, just like when he was drowning himself in red wine in his wet dream, which still hadn't escaped him. He caught his breath after three suffocating minutes, and he fell backward, avoiding contact with the results of his believing he had drank wine. It was a natural reaction; after three years of jabbing at his gag reflex when he finished drinking (in order to 'cleanse' himself of the toxic amount of alcohol in his system), his body had adjusted. Now, whenever he so much as drank liquids, he'd start heaving until he swished it around in his mouth until his body believed that it was a non-alcoholic beverage.

Francis had freaked out when it happened at the dinner table. After Arthur took a gulp of water, he had retched and then coughed it up. He'd convinced the Frenchman that he had swallowed his food "down the wrong pipe", and after cleaning up, they continued eating in an uncomfortable silence.

'_Maybe it's time… that I told him the truth.'_

After he cleaned up his mess.

Arthur rose to his feet slowly, jumping when a bright flash of lightning filled his vision, a loud rumble of thunder that shook the apartment following. He willed himself to calm his nerves, breathing as slowly and deeply as he could so that he didn't become dizzy again. He looked around, walking toward a dark tunnel he found between the kitchen and the living room. He walked down the narrow hallway until he came face to face with a doorway.

Inside, he could see Francis sitting up, Croissant sitting by his side. Blue eyes were fixated on the window opposite where Arthur stood, watching as the moonlight quickly disappeared. The Briton knocked on the doorframe, startling the transfixed Frenchman.

"I'm terribly sorry, Francis," Arthur said, his voice soft and just barely escaping him. His throat kept certain sounds from properly leaving his mouth. "I need to clean up… my mess."

"Mon ange, are you sure that you are alright?" Francis asked, his mind still stuck on dinner. He didn't mean to pry or irritate, but he knew how Arthur hated displaying weakness.

Arthur sighed, a hand reaching back to scratch the back of his head. "I'll… be telling you some things… momentarily…"

"Desole, Agleterre. I'm just… I'm very worried about you." Francis's voice still had that uncharacteristically sad crackle in it. He got up and walked over to the Briton, then guided him to the restroom.

Arthur offered a weary smile. "It is alright, Francis. It is only natural."

But as usual, behind that smile was a frown and much frustration. _Gods, so much sadness for the past few days. When was it going to stop? Even the sky is unhappy!_

Arthur grasped at his temples when the same dark voice that had invaded his mind earlier refilled his head.

'_It's your fault, twat.'_

Arthur muttered a sharp but inaudible _Leave me the bloody hell alone,_ before he continued to follow the Frenchman.

Francis blinded the Briton with light, and Arthur cried out, his eyes burning from the sudden invasion against his pupils that had adjusted to the darkness. With a quick apology, Francis handed Arthur an old washcloth, nut the clover-eyed man pushed it away.

"Something in which I can carry my mess, please. It's quite a lot," Arthur said.

"_Mon Dieu, _do you need help?"

A frantic shake of the head. "I'd rather you not. It's very embarrassing."

Once he had proper cleaning materials, Arthur left without a word. Inside, he panicked. He knew he was hurting Francis with every rejection at every offer the taller man made to help him out. This was why he hated being the guest; he hated getting help.

He dared not turn on the living room lamp when he bent down to clean up his mess, the light from the hallway enough for him to see that disgusting pile of internal mess on the carpet. How the hell was he going to get it out of the fluffy carpet after he cleaned it up? He would deal with that later, his mind too exhausted to plan out anything. But Arthur being Arthur, he needed to keep himself busy. As he collected the mess with gloves that made good doggy-like bags, and put them in the small, metal bin, he couldn't help but begin thinking ahead.

Where was he going to start when he told Francis these things? There were so many subjects to relieve himself of, from the events that caused his external scars to the events that would leave him internally scarred, some for life.

_Speaking of relief…_

Dear gods, he hoped that Francis hadn't noticed.

When he stood up to dispose of his mess, he kept his front side facing the walls. He really didn't want to relieve _that_ at someone else's house, especially not at the apartment of the person who had caused it to happen.

'_Well it's not really his fault. Flying Mint Bunny must have been tinkering with my serotonin…_

_Yes, because blaming the bunny makes everything so much better. It's only natural, Arthur. Just deal with it and move on. It's not like he's going to be doing it for you.'_

Arthur wanted to palm his burning face, but thought better of it when his mind turned to disposing of his mess and how many pathogens could be on his hands. He stared at the trashcan, but walked to the bathroom instead, wanting it to have completely disappeared. But even the bathroom made him feel guilty. Damn it all, why did the Frenchman have to be so fancy?

'_Remember the lobby? You kind of asked for this.'_

In the restroom were six pale green walls, and a polished, white-marble-tile floor that he'd nearly wanted to cuddle against the minute he set foot on it. The floors were heated, and soothed the Briton's aching feet, which, in turn, made the rest of him feel warm.

He flushed his mess away, and then went back out to the living room to scrub the remaining stain away. He did this task with much care, wanting every trace of his spilled guts to be completely gone. _Poof._

And then he washed his hands and the cleaning materials before finally sitting in that bathroom's bathtub, muttering a quick but insincere apology for what he was about to do to it. He knew that this was going to happen again; it had already happened multiple times when he was out on his own. He wanted to squirm and make some sort of noise when he began to take care of himself, but he didn't want any interruptions. He didn't even let himself breathe properly in the midst of it all, the promise of relief becoming stronger the longer he did this and making it so much harder not to express the sheer frustration that had built up inside of him.

If this was going to be so uncomfortable here, he needed to find away to make it more comforting. However, it wasn't that bad when he let himself dream, despite his pessimistic way of thinking.

The dream that had caused this had been bittersweet, for the wine drinking had ruined it all. The warm feeling caused by the beverage, and the insane wildness it had made bubble up inside his chest had ruined the genuineness of everything that had happened later. He remembered Francis's hands vividly. The way they ran all over him, albeit sluggishly, tracing his scars and making them feel like they would disappear. The markings had resulted from hatred, and the way that the Frenchman's hands worked so gently and lovingly seemed to melt them away, with help from that damned beverage.

He remembered gasping and moaning, and seeing how much love gleamed in those beautiful blue eyes. Then there were the tangled limbs and the crying out when they both pushed each other over the edge. He was a little thankful that his real body had decided to wait; _that_ mess would have made him even more embarrassed.

Sweat began to form in tiny droplets on his forehead, and the Briton let a soft, pleased noise release itself from him as he felt relief wash over him. He sat for a few more minutes, taking deep breaths, before he found a washcloth nearby and cleaned himself up, rinsing it out when he was finished. He felt as though something had been lifted off of his shoulders as he wobbled over to the sink to wash his hands, and that meant something, considering how hopeless he was. He nearly fell asleep when the warm water rushed over his palms; the sound of flowing water always made him sleepy. He walked out of the bathroom feeling very relaxed.

And it would get better, he knew, when he talked out the rest of his frustration with his Frenchman, who smiled at him when he entered the door. The blue-eyed man's scent was very strong in here, naturally.

Francis had a scent. Arthur wondered what his would be, when his heart turned from a weed to a rose.

**This next chapter will be graphic in a violent sense. I love y'all to death and really do care about what you think. I'm very proud of this piece and hope to see it go very far.**


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